


Silences

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Injury, Comfort Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Longing, Massage, Nightmares, Porn with Feelings, Recovery, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, canon-typical mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 15:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11970516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: She wants to give him the space he needs, to help him break down a barrier he doesn’t want. She can’t tell if she’s getting it right.Max takes a while to recover from a nightmare. Furiosa misses their closeness.





	Silences

Max has been quiet for three days now.

He’d had a nightmare, bad enough to make him hurl himself out of bed. By the time Furiosa had got the lamp lit, she’d found him huddled in a corner, still looking around him for possible attacks. He’d managed to stay in her room – she’s started to think of it as theirs, but she can’t do that when she sees him like this. Even when he was calmer, he hadn’t got back into bed. He’d accepted a blanket, but she doesn’t think he slept again that night.

She understands his nightmares, and sometimes thinks she doesn’t understand them at all. He is haunted by the people he couldn’t save. Her own ghosts have more direct reasons to blame her.

Since then, he’s been avoiding people. He’d vanished from the garage after a bare quarter-hour; if it wasn’t for his car, still parked in its usual sheltered spot, she’d have thought he’d left again. When he came to her room that night, the silence was heavy.

It’s not that he’s ever chatty, but this is a different kind of quiet. Max can say such a lot without talking. His silences can be companionable, fond, sceptical, sometimes with grunts. The past three days he’s been fragile, holding on. He’s withdrawn, but she doesn’t think he’s lost in his own head. It might be touch and go, but he’s managed not to make for the desert. 

“Maybe a lookout shift?” she had said, speaking quietly. He’d nodded, and spent the next two days up in one of the Citadel’s spires, away from everything.

She wants to give him the space he needs, to help him break down a barrier he doesn’t want. She can’t tell if she’s getting it right.

She doesn’t know where he’s sleeping, if he’s sleeping. He’s been eating alone, too, the mess hall too noisy. On the fourth day, she fills two plates with food and comes up to join him at his post. Halfway up the narrow stone steps, she feels a bubble of resentment rising: this isn’t an easy time, there’s Buzzard trouble brewing and factions flaring up in the Citadel, she’s got enough to deal with, she could use some support too. The bubble bursts when she turns the corner and sees Max. He’s wedged against the wall, watching the desert as if he expects an immediate assault.

“Hey,” she says, raising her voice from the top of the stairs. He startles and relaxes in one, bracing himself and accepting her as a non-threat. She brings in the food, sets his plate down next to him. He grunts his thanks, and eats quickly, his eyes flickering between her and the wasteland. Once he’s finished, they sit together, quiet. She thinks it helps. She doesn’t know. After a while, she touches his shoulder and goes back to her duties. He sleeps in the spire that night, snatching rest once his shift is over, and waking up to watch again. Furiosa visits a few times, sits with him before leaving. As she heads for the stairs, he swallows, throat clicking in the effort to speak.

“Thanks,” he says, gruff. She nods, tries to smile.

There’s a knock on her door the next night. She’s been leaving it unbarred as long as she dares, hoping not to lock him out if he wants to come back. She’s done the same now, even starting to take her arm off in an unsecured room. She does the buckles back up before calling whoever it is to come in, rather than opening the door herself. It’s unlikely to be anything dangerous, but if it is, she’s safer with the length of the room between her and a possible attacker. The Citadel is less dangerous now, but old habits die hard.

It’s Max, standing hunched in the doorway, his jacket collar turned up, his whole stance defensive. She nods to him, goes on taking off her arm, rolls her shoulders. From the way he’s standing, his must be painfully tight.

“I could rub your back?” Her voice sounds loud in the still of the room. Max jumps at the question, then nods. She goes to bar the door. They both need the reassurance of that.

“If you sit on the bench,” she suggests. Normally, he lies on the bed if she’s going to massage him, his shirt off. That seems too much to ask right now. Max grunts an agreement, slowly takes off his jacket before sitting down, facing the door. 

He jerks when she touches him, then braces himself, as if this were an ordeal. She swallows, and starts to stroke him through his shirt, light and slow, kneading with her fingers and with her nub. He shivers when she touches his bare neck, so she moves back to his shoulders, her touch a little firmer. His shirt rides up, revealing the first line of his back tattoo.

She hardly sees the inked words any more. When he’s naked, she’s looking at him, not the marks on him. But sometimes they leap out at her, the crude reduction of Max to a commodity, and she has to make an effort not to read them. She concentrates on his shoulders, still held high with tension, though at least he’s no longer braced against her touch. She’s starting to feel a difference; he’s not exactly relaxed, but there’s some improvement. She works her way down his broad back, looking for knots and finding far too many of them.

If his back is like this, his bad leg will almost certainly be worse. She doesn’t offer, not today. His knee is always a vulnerable point, in all senses. He’ll ask for a back rub, and offer to massage any part of her, but he’s never the one to mention his leg. The times he needs it most is when it’s hardest to suggest it. She concentrates on his back, relieved to find the muscle at least a little softer now. His shirt rides up higher when she gets her elbow into the tight place under his shoulder, revealing more lines of ink.

She is suddenly sick with longing. She wants to strip him bare and take him to bed – not even to fuck him, just to wrap herself around him and feel his skin, the warmth and the scent of his body. Her hand is resting on his shoulder, holding him steady. Almost without meaning to, she strokes upwards, over his brand, combing her fingers through his hair. Max sighs, staying still for her. She leaves her hand in his hair as she finishes his back, using her elbow and her shortened forearm. When she slows down, he leans against her. 

“Will you come to bed tonight?” She tries to keep her voice neutral, not to weight it with expectation. He nods, turns his head to rest his cheek against her side.

In bed, he keeps most of his clothes on. But he presses against her, lets her put her arms around him and hold him tight, as if she could anchor or shelter him, like preparing for a dust storm. She thinks he sleeps, but he’s up at dawn, back to the lookout post. This time, Furiosa lets herself stay in bed longer. She needs it.

The day is a hard, slow grind, hammering out compromises with the Council, dealing with factions and hurt pride. There’s no word on the Buzzards, which is good news as far as it goes. By late afternoon, they’ve got as far as they’re going to for the moment. It’s a good time for a break, a few days to let decisions settle, report back on moods and reactions. Maybe Furiosa will have a chance to return to the garage. There's a newly-salvaged truck with a mess of a gearbox. She’s looking forward to that, to the clean certainties of repair work. It’s too late to make a start today, and she’s stiff from sitting, from the tension of the long negotiations. She goes back to her room to take off her arm, then heads down to the mess hall.

The dinner session is busy, the room noisy and not much choice left at the food counters. Furiosa is collecting a portion of vegetable stew, and one of the last from a dish of apricots, when she hears a whistle. It’s the two Vuvalini, Gilly and Mel, making space for her at one of the tables.

They’re discussing tomorrow’s seed party: stripping the kernels from the crops reserved at the last harvest, laying them on trays to dry, ready for the next planting. It’s a popular job, peaceful and with plenty of time to chat. There’s a sense of achievement to it, too: seeing the signs of a good harvest, planning for the future. The thought of it feels very remote, but it’s nice hearing about it as she eats her apricot and starts on the stew, the noise levels falling as people finish their suppers.

“You joining us tomorrow?” Mel asks, as she gets up to go. Furiosa nods: she hopes so, anyway. “Hope to see you, then.” She pats her shoulder. Once she’s gone, there’s a little pause.

“You look like you could do with a quiet day,” Gilly says, with the frankness of a woman who remembers seeing her learn to walk. Even so, Furiosa can feel her barriers going up. Her instinct, still, is to shrug off trouble, deny weakness. But this is Gilly: she doesn’t need to be invulnerable any more, though admitting that feels raw and strange.

“There’s a lot going on,” she admits. Gilly nods, encouraging. “Waiting to see if the Buzzards – we’re ready, but…” 

“The waiting’s hard,” Gilly agrees. “Not knowing where you are. Though you seem pretty sure of your ground, your crews.” Furiosa nods: she is, she knows she is. At least she’s got the Council out of the way for the moment, but she still feels tense. And it’s easier to talk about the Buzzards than about Citadel divisions. Or about Max. She finds herself looking back at Gilly, hopeful.

“I don’t have any ancient wisdom for this,” Gilly says, answering the look rather than anything Furiosa has said. “You prepare, check your parts, count your bullets. Time comes when you have to admit that’s all you can do.”

“We keep moving,” Furiosa says, trying to remember when that felt hopeful rather than endless.

“Well, yeah,” Gilly says. “But sometimes you break to camp, to sleep. That’s preparation, too. It’s not just engines that want maintenance.” Furiosa nods again. It’s good advice; she wishes she felt heartened by it. Gilly gives her an unexpected hug. “I know it’s hard to stop.”

“I just – I don’t know if what I’m doing is working,” Furiosa admits, staring at her plate. “If I should be doing something else.” But she doesn’t pull away from the hug.

“You’ve got good instincts,” Gilly tells her. “You know what you’re doing. Not everything works, but that’s not because you’ve neglected it.” She watches Furiosa for a moment, her look searching. “Come to the seed party,” she says. “Do whatever else you can to relax. What you need.” Then she looks up. “Speaking of.”

Furiosa hadn’t expected to see Max in the mess hall, hadn’t thought he’d be up to it, but there he is, crossing the room towards her. It’s like seeing him return to Citadel territory, the way spotting his car gives her a jolt of excitement. Her tension changes. The lingering tightness in her belly doesn’t ease, exactly, but it becomes something else.

The cloud of grief has left him. Sometimes it takes long days for a nightmare to fade; sometimes it just goes. He’s looking so much better. His six-days’ beard is neat, and though he’s wearing his jacket, he’s not hunched into it, his shoulders open. He joins their table, nods to Gilly.

“Talking about tomorrow’s seed party,” she tells him. “You’d be welcome.” 

Max hums in acknowledgement. He’s self-contained but brighter, held in rather than withdrawn. When Furiosa meets his eye, his gaze is clear. She finds herself smiling, because he’s here, he’s okay, he’s himself again. He smiles back, slow and warm, and she could watch him forever.

“Taking these up to the terrace,” Gilly says, apparently bored with the spectacle they’re making of themselves. She picks up an apricot and a piece of green, and pushes her plate to rest between Max and Furiosa.

“Thanks,” Furiosa says, catching Gilly’s hand as she gets up. The older woman squeezes back. 

“You’re doing fine,” she says. “Do what you need.”

When Furiosa turns back to Max, he’s watching her, his face soft but cautious. For a silent man, he’s very clear about whether he’s taking part or staying politely out of something, and he knows that wasn’t his conversation. She smiles at him, self-conscious, then looks down at Gilly’s plate. She’s left them a peach, almost as small as the apricot, but ripe. 

“We could share it?” she suggests.

Max picks up the knife and cuts the peach into neat slices. Furiosa finds herself watching his hands, big and square and deft, opening up the fruit without bruising it. He pushes the plate towards her. Her mouth is already watering. 

The peach is sweet and juicy, but though it’s a rare treat, she’s looking at him rather than at the fruit. Their fingers touch when they both reach for another piece, and it sends a wave of heat through her, a rush of blood downwards. She knows she’s staring. He’s staring back, watching her lick the juice of the last slice from her fingers. When he tilts his head, suggesting they leave, she stands up so fast she almost knocks the bench over. On their way out, she gives the peach stone back at the counter, so it can be planted again.

Her flesh hand brushes his as they turn into the stairwell, and then they’re holding hands, clinging tight. They both climb faster and faster, until they’re almost running up the stone stairs. 

She has to let go of his hand to bar the steel door. As soon as she has, he’s back on her, pressing her up against the metal, hips grinding into hers. She slides her nub around him as he kisses her, his hand finding hers again.

It’s urgent and frantic, but then he slows down, kissing her deeper, with little nuzzles and murmurs between kisses. She’s melting at it, hanging on to him. He is just so present, his mouth on hers and his body pushed up against her, warm and eager and here. At last he breaks off, enough to look at her.

He hasn’t had a steady gaze for six days. Now he’s looking at her, right at her, with a hungry wonder that almost makes her feel shy, how naked this is. Not that shy: she pulls him in to kiss him again. 

Lifting their joined hands to her right cheek, he kisses the other. She can’t think why, then realises she’s smiling, she must be letting her dimples show. Max loves them, always responds to them. She knows they only come with her most unguarded smiles. He’s still watching her as he strokes up her side, cupping her breast, thumbing at the nipple through her shirt. It has her squirming inside her leathers. 

He keeps making little mmfing noises as he unwraps her, getting her shirt over her head between kisses, undoing the cloth she wears over her breasts. He’s not clumsy but he does get distracted, trying to stroke and kiss and undress in one. He keeps taking her hand, reluctant to let it go. When she’s bare, he nibbles down her throat to her shoulders, finding and lingering over the spot that sends little tremors down her arms. 

Very aware that he’s still dressed, she tugs impatiently at his jacket. He gets it off and drops it, then gets sidetracked into kissing her breast. She has to tug again before he gets his own shirt off.

He’s much more efficient when he comes back to her clothes, getting her trouser fastenings open – they’re designed to be worked one-handed, he has the knack of it and doesn’t let go of her fingers – before sliding his right hand into her leathers, into her underwear, quick and deft. She groans at his touch between her legs, her cunt already clenching with want, groans again when he sucks at her nipple. He kisses back up her chest, raising his head to look at her as his fingers get to her clit.

It’s as if he can’t look away, tracking her eyes and her mouth, watching for every gasp and whimper. His eyes are huge and dark. Furiosa is panting, held against the door by the press of his body. He leans in to kiss her cheek – is she smiling? She has no idea – and then her mouth, licking into her as her body shivers and twitches.

He’s going luxuriously slow, stroking sure and firm, only gradually speeding up. She’s already gasping from it when he bends down to her chest again, beard tickling as he kisses and sucks. She’s moaning, her cunt shuddering. Max looks up to watch her come, leaning into her with his hand in hers.

When she’s finished, he lifts his slippery fingers to cup her face and kiss her again. She is so revved up, wet and still wanting. Her cunt clenches; she can’t tell if it’s aftershock or emptiness. 

“Want – want – ” She’s gasping, letting go of his hand to fumble at the flap of his leathers, feeling how hard he is, her nub pulling him closer. He gives a growl of pleasure at that; she’s kissing his throat, can feel the vibration of it against her mouth. Still holding her, he turns her, backing her towards the bed.

He lays her down, stroking her sides before getting her boots and leathers off. Straightening up to deal with his own, he’s still staring at her. She feels spread out for him, open and abandoned, wanting to be seen after so many days of darting, unhappy glances. 

The way he moves is fast and smooth and so focused, with the sense of flow she gets from watching him drive, watching him fight. She loves the weight of his thighs, of his bum, of his cock. As soon as he’s bare, she half-sits to pull him in, her legs already opening for him. With a sense of distant amazement, she realises that he has his back to the door, that he’s prepared to risk nakedness without even checking. (He’d seen her lock it. She is not careless, and never about security, but the last couple of nights he slept here, he’d kept looking, needing to check, reluctant to turn his back on it.)

Almost before he’s above her, she’s reaching up for him, wants to wrap her arms and legs around him, to feel him moving inside her. She pulls so hard that he loses his balance, lurching warm and solid and heavy against her before he rights himself. They’re both half-laughing, giggles fading into needier sounds as he settles between her thighs.

She moans as he slides into her: she’s worked up and over-sensitive, her cunt already clamping down on him even as she reacts to the sense of being filled. He holds himself still, just looking at her again, when she knows he must be aching to move. She grinds her hips up, wanting him as deep as he can go, feeling his shake of laughter before he kisses her and begins to thrust. 

She wraps her arms tighter as he rocks into her, shifting his hips until he finds the angle that makes her gasp. He keeps it steady, then gets swept away by it, fucking into her harder and faster. She holds him close as he comes, feeling his shudders, how entirely he lets go. He goes heavy for a long moment, panting on top of her, burrowing into her.

She’s about to nudge him – he really is heavy – when he rolls onto his back, pulling her with him so she’s lying sprawled over him. His softening cock slides out of her, leaving her empty. She snuggles closer, feeling the solid heat of his body under her, sweat and chest hair and firm muscle. Max hums, holds her tighter.

He knows she didn’t come this time, works his hand down between her legs and starts rubbing again, soft and slow. She’s still so wet, swollen and needy against his hand. He cradles her on top of him, fingers gentle but ruthless, working and working at her. She buries her face in his chest and comes sobbing, feeling his arm around her. He kisses the top of her head, stroking her back.

Once they’re cleaned up and back in bed, she sits between his legs, leaning against his chest. 

“Your turn,” he says, a slow rumble, and starts to stroke her shoulders, looking for any tension knots. She doesn’t think he’ll find many: she feels bonelessly soft. He slips an arm round her waist, nosing at her hair. 

After a while, she reaches over to touch his left thigh. As she suspected, there’s still some tightness there, though it’s not as bad as she feared.

“Could do this for you?” He hums an agreement, hooking his leg over hers, so she can reach to knead his calf. It’s good to feel his muscles moving, the tensions starting to give way. She can’t fix his knee, but she can make it hurt less, at least for now.

“Glad – ” She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. That he’s back, that he’s better? Neither feels right. How can she tell him she’s glad he’s back, when she knows how hard he had to try not to go? And better, for both of them, is a process, not an end point. She goes on massaging his calf, leaving the word hanging, because it’s true just on its own. Max kisses her shoulder, a tickle of beard and soft, warm lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
